


I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas

by rubygirl29



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brooklyn, Christmas Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Schmoop, Steve loves Christmas, inspired by Bing Crosby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 04:10:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5524901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier comes in from the cold and right into Steve's heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: Non-canon compliant for Christmas reasons. Alson non-canon compliant for Agents of SHIELD. I always write a Christmas fic because Christmas. I wish you all a happy holiday with those you love. 
> 
> I have shamelessly used Bing Crosby in a WWII memory for Steve. According to the USO Archives, "without fail, the GIs requested that he sing "White Christmas" because it reminded them of home. Of course he complied, but it was a tough performance for him, because half his audience would be in tears. He went anywhere and everywhere that American boys were fighting, at some of his shows the GIs would be sitting on the ground holding their rifles, at other times they would stand for the entire performance."

_November, Ural Mountains_

Steve Rogers doesn't remember being this cold since he put that plane in the ice. He and Sam are huddled around a small fire; the warmth being only slightly more comforting than the light. Steve's knuckles are bruised, his face has a scrape across his forehead. Both will be gone by daylight, but Sam won't be as lucky. His broken wrist won't heal overnight. They had come across a small HYDRA outpost deep in the mountains of central Russia. Natasha had tracked the Winter Soldier's movements to the caves, then lost him. Steve and Sam had a run in with some soldiers wearing the familiar red octopus insignia. Even a super soldier and a highly trained special forces operative couldn't take the odds of twenty against two. Steve didn't have his shield, and Sam didn't have his wings. They couldn't risk their reputation as Avengers on a mission like this. As a result, they had taken down as many opponents as they could, had Tony destroy their electronics with a virus, and had sealed the exits. The men wouldn't die, but it would take a while for them to debug the computers and regain access to the outside world.

Sam sighs and looks at Steve. "You asked Tony for extraction, right?"

"Yeah." He stares into the flames. "Damn! I thought we were so close. I thought we would catch up to Bucky here. Instead we nearly had our asses handed to us."

"Steve, we've been chasing this ghost for months. Maybe we should call it quits and go home."

He wants to protest. He wants to say that he won't abandon Bucky. Instead he nods wearily. "We'll go home, rest up. I'll try again after the new year. You don't have to come, Sam. I can do this alone."

Sam snorts. "Right. Like you'd have got outta this mess alone. No way, brotha. Six weeks, and I'll be good as new. It'll be nice to have the holidays at home. My momma would hate it if I missed another Christmas." He pauses. "Why don't you come home with me? There's plenty of food and lots of room. It ain't fancy digs like Tony's but we've been sleeping in worse places."

It's tempting. "I'll think about it," Steve replies, even though they both know he won't take Sam up on the offer.

The quinjet arrives at midnight and whisks them away to New York.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

_Thanksgiving_

Thanksgiving at Tony's is an embarrassment of riches. Steve looks at the table that has been set for the big dinner. In addition to the standards; turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, sweet and mashed potatoes, cornbread and an assortment of vegetables, there's also prime rib, ham, homemade bread, and more. Desserts are on the sideboard and there's a multitude of those as well. He can't help thinking back to Thanksgiving during the Depression. His mom, while never unemployed, was lucky if she could get a whole chicken, much less a turkey, and she said it was a good thing that day old bread was the best for stuffing because it was cheap. Their neighbor canned green beans from the small garden out back, so they had those and potatoes that his mom had picked out of the bruised bin at the corner store. The one thing they always had for dessert was Winifred Barnes' pumpkin pie that Bucky would bring over warm from the oven.

He'd never stay, even though Sarah Rogers asked, but he brought the pie and said with a shy duck of his head that the pumpkin Winifred roasted had made more pies than even the Barnes clan could eat. Steve was pretty sure that wasn't the whole truth, but he wasn't going to call out Winifred Barnes, who was as fierce in her love of Steve and Sarah, as she was with her own flesh and blood.

Back then, maybe only the Rockefellers and Vanderbilts, had Thanksgivings like this. Steve is acutely aware that only one percent of Americans celebrate the way Tony does. He lives in Brooklyn, and there are soup kitchens with long lines there. He has plans to go to St. Vincent's after Tony's celebration. Tony has already made arrangements to provide food for their soup kitchen and homeless shelter, but Steve still wants to give back to his community.

Three hours later, stuffed to his super soldier gills and feeling like he ought to waddle instead of walk, Steve heads back to Brooklyn. St. Vincent's soup kitchen is in full swing. Long lines and more people than usual, including families. Steve puts on an apron and starts doling out food. It's not as fancy as Tony's but it has everything these folks need to have a good meal and extra food packed to go. 

Father Bob hurries over to his side. He looks like he's about to burst with happiness. "Steve! Thank you for your wonderful donation. We're able to feed so many more people than last year, plus extra food. How can I thank you?"

"You already have, father." Steve smiles down at a little girl and dishes out extra whipped cream on her pumpkin pie. "This is my Thanksgiving." He doesn't need to remind the pastor that he has lived through hard times and stood in soup kitchen lines himself. Some memories don't fade, even after seventy years in the ice. 

The lines continue until well after dark. Finally, only a few stragglers remain. Fortunately, there's still enough food. As Steve dishes out turkey and mashed potatoes, he has the uncanny feeling that he's being watched. He looks up and scans the room. Nobody is obviously watching, but there is a guy in Rosemary O'Donnell's line who looks quickly away when Steve turns towards him. 

He's wearing an oversized black hoodie, ragged jeans and gloves. A lank lock of dark hair slides forward, obscuring his face, but he doesn't look up, just takes his plate and heads towards the door at a quick walk. When another man pushes past him, he looks up and his hood falls back, giving Steve just a glimpse of his profile. It's enough. It's all Steve needs. "Bucky?"

He puts down his utensils and goes in pursuit, but as he reaches the door, a woman with three small children grabs at his arm. "Are we too late? Please tell me that you still have food?" She's desperate and her kids are looking up at him like he's some kind of hero. He tears his eyes away from the exit. He's too late. Even without any interference, Bucky would have vanished by now … if it even had been Bucky. It might have been wishful thinking on Steve's part. 

"No, we've got plenty of food. Come on, and I'll get it for you. Have you folks got a place to stay tonight?"

She nods. "Yes, we have a room, but no kitchen, and it's been a few days since the kids have had a hot meal. Peanut butter only goes so far." She gives him a sad smile as she herds her kids to a table. Steve tells her to sit with them, and he'll bring them food. When he sets the plates down, he gets a grateful thank you from the family. They remind him of people he know back when. 

He takes off his apron and asks the woman next to him if she would mind watching his table for a few minutes. He goes outside into the cold. It's not bone-chilling yet, but his breath shows in the air. He looks up and down the now, nearly empty, street. Again, he has the sensation of being watched, but he doesn't know where or how. His eyesight, once so poor, is sharp even in near darkness. He thinks he sees a darker shadow lurking in the shadows between the church and rectory, and he strides over quickly. Nothing, just the sound of fading footsteps in the darkness. Soft, like athletic shoes, or well-worn boots. Could it have been Bucky? 

He returns to the soup kitchen to help clean up. By the time he leaves it's nearly 10pm and the streets are empty. He walks down the alley where he thought he saw Bucky, but it's deserted and silent. 

The next morning, after a night of confused and muddled dreams, Steve goes to the tower to talk to Tony. He finds him lying prone on his couch throwing shapes into the air, which Steve still finds unsettling. He's still getting the hang of his StarkPad. 

He turns his head lazily towards Steve. "What's hanging Spangles?"

"You know sometimes I hate you, Tony."

"Yeah, but the rest of the time you love me, so we're good." Tony actually sits up. "Seriously, what can I do for you? Did Father Bob have enough food or did he have to make like the loaves and the fishes?"

Steve laughs. "There was plenty of food, Tony. Thank you. But that's not why I'm here." He waits a beat before adding, "I think I saw Bucky."

"O-kay, but why tell me? Why not his Comrade Natasha, or that so loyal flyboy of yours?"

"Because of this … " Steve takes a flash drive out of his pocket. "I took this out of the facility in the Urals."

"You think this is going to tell you where the elusive Sergeant Barnes is these days?"

"No, but I think it might give us a clue as to how to track him. I mean, they had to know how to track the Winter Soldier to keep him in line, to be sure he stayed on mission." 

Tony takes the flash drive and plugs it into his laptop. "Jarvis, analyze and translate this."

_"Of course, sir. There are five hundred files on here, correspondence and reports. It will take a while to analyze."_

"Eliminate any files that aren't related to the Winter Soldier or Sergeant James Barnes."

_"Yes, sir. There are fifteen files referencing the Winter Soldier. None contain information about James Barnes."_

"Translate and put them up on the screen."

In a few seconds the files are up on Tony's screen. "Show all files that reference tracking, movements, GPS, maps, locations."

Only three files remain. The first one opens showing a map of Russia and Eastern Europe littered with small red dots. Tony clicks on one. It shows a date from the late nineties. "Okay, these dots seem to indicate missions of one kind or another." He thinks he's sparing Steve the knowledge that some of those are probably assassinations. He opens the last file. Instead of dots, there are GPS coordinates. "Jarvis, find New York." 

Three locations come to life. One of them is blinking. "Well, I'll be damned," Tony marvels. "Look at that. It's a real-time tracking system."

Steve feels the blood drain from his face. "He's in New York?"

"Brooklyn, to be exact. And to be more exact, near St. Vincent's."

"Is there any way I can have this installed on my phone?"

Tony grins and wiggles his fingers. "Hand it over, Cap. I'll have it working in no time at all."

Steve holds out his phone and hopes his hands aren't shaking hard enough for Tony to notice. "I owe you, Tony," he says. "Thank you."

"De Nada, or pozhaluysta, or whatever language he's speaking currently." 

Tony shows him how the program works and how to access it. As Steve leaves the tower and looks at the blinking dot that is nearly at his doorstep, he feels the first, faint hope that he'll be able to find Bucky and bring him in from the cold. 

Two days later, still without a clear sighting of the Winter Soldier, Steve, Sam and Clint are called out on mission to infiltrate a Hydra facility in the Bavarian Alps, and to download all the files before eliminating it. It takes three weeks to infiltrate. Steve thinks it would have been a lot easier with Natasha, but she's too well-known, so it's up to Sam and Clint to ingratiate themselves with the guards to the point that they can gain access and get the files. Steve thinks his presence isn't needed, until Sam and Clint are captured and it's up to Captain America to come to the rescue. It's not a clean job, but the mission is accomplished. Sam is fine, but Clint sustained a broken left wrist, cracked ribs, and a possible concussion. Steve has a few bruises, but he's able to extract them and get them safely home two days before Christmas. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Clint is sent off to Medical for an overnight stay to monitor his condition. Once he's comfortably ensconced, and with Coulson at his side (Steve still finds in somewhat _interesting_ that the archer with a checkered past and the impeccable Agent Coulson are a couple,) he and Sam have a mission debrief with Maria Hill. Hill, even though SHIELD as they know it has been disbanded, still has oversight on the remaining operations. She has three months to wrap up old business before she's out, like most of Director Fury's team, including Agent Coulson. 

When they arrive, Natasha is sitting with Maria. In a very un-Widow-like show of emotion, she hugs them both fiercely. "How is Clint?" she asks Steve.

"In Medical. Probably overnight. But Agent Coulson is with him."

"So, fine, then." She knows them, and her eyes sparkle with it for a moment. "We need to talk," she whispers. "But not here." 

Steve and Sam give their reports, and Natasha adds what she can, regarding the location of other HYDRA bases in the area. "Most of them are abandoned," she says. "I've been inside several, and there is nothing there -- no computers, no files of any kind. I think we can assume those are worthless, though they might make good observation sites for SHIELD."

The meeting continues along those lines for an hour before Maria closes her laptop and tells them to get some rest. Steve turns on his phone and opens the Winter Soldier app. Nothing is blinking, but the last location is in Brookly. 

"I have to go," he tells Natasha. "Talk later?"

"Steve, we need to talk _now_ about what you're seeing on that phone. I know what you're trying to do, and you should --"

"Don't tell me what I should or shouldn't do, Nat. I know what I _have_ to do. You won't talk me out of it."

"You have no idea what he is capable of doing."

"Really? Just because the scars don't stay on my body doesn't mean I forget how they got there. He's had several opportunities to kill me since the helicarrier, and I'm still alive. I saw him once, in line at St. Vincent's, but I'm not even sure he knew I was there when he came in. He looked cold and hungry, and a little scared."

Natasha snorts delicately. "He's playing you like a violin, Steve."

"I don't think he is."

"More fool you, then. Remember, I warned you, though that will be cold comfort from your grave."

"Excuse me, but your Russian drama queen is showing." He knows he's made a mistake as soon as the words leave his mouth. 

"Don't. Even. Go. There." She stabs him in the chest with a sharp fingernail, punctuating each word. Then her expression softens. "I care what happens to you, Steve. I don't like to lose friends."

"I'll be fine, Natasha. So far, I haven't been able to find him. He's a ghost, like you said." He bends and kisses her cheek, always amazed that somebody so tiny could be so strong in both love and hate. 

He could have a driver give him a ride back to Brooklyn, but he decides to take the train. The car is filled with holiday shoppers and Steve feels a pang of guilt that he hasn't finished his holiday shopping. Brooklyn is a haven for artists and artisans, so he takes a few hours to purchase gifts. He buys Sam a book about the history of aviation, and a silk screened scarf in shades of emerald and black for Natasha. You can't buy anything for Tony, so Steve decides to have a small sketch that he had drawn of the view from Avengers Tower with Iron Man doing a fly by framed. He thinks Tony will get a kick out of it. He stops at the liquor store to pick up some top shelf bourbon for Coulson and orders a Brooklyn beer of the month subscription for Clint. He finds a gorgeous leather bound copy of _On the Origin of Species_ for Bruce in a rare bookstore, then he's done. Thankfully, Thor is off-world with no set return, because what did one buy a god? A plush cushion for Mjolnir?

His arms are laden with packages as he fumbles with the key to his apartment. Suddenly, he feels the hair at the nape of his neck rising. He's being watched. He finds the key, but drops it on purpose to give himself a chance to look around. Nothing. Nobody. He stands and looks up at the roof of the building across the street. He can't be sure, but he thinks he saw a quick movement like somebody ducking out of view. He curses under his breath. He can just drop his packages in the snow and go in pursuit, and by the time he'll get to his place and puts the packages on the floor, Bucky will be in the wind. 

He opens up his door and goes inside, setting the presents on the floor. He sighs and thinks there's one more gift he needs to buy. How on earth he will deliver it, God only knows, but he'll find a way, somehow.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
_Christmas Eve 9am_

The weather changes overnight. Steve wakes to snow, falling thickly and covering Brooklyn with white. He showers, eats a bowl of oatmeal, and then heads out for his final shopping. He finds what he's looking for in a small shop that sells handmade goods by women in developing countries. He picks up a woven scarf; it's soft and warm in his hands, almost large enough to be a blanket to cover a man's head and shoulders if needed. The saleswoman tells him about the natural waterproofing in the fibers, how the people in the Andes worked the yarn, how the brilliant shades of blue, black and gray won't fade or run. 

Steve smiles at her and says, "I'll take it." If he can't lure Bucky inside, at least he might be able to give him some comforting warmth in this weather.

He returns to his apartment to find footprints in the snow on his doorstep. Not the usual prints left by his neighbors, but the kind left by heavy, military-style vibram soles. He touches them lightly, but has no sense that he's being watched. He doesn't even look for Bucky. He knows now that he's out there. 

_12pm_

Steve is in the middle of making a compound butter for his Christmas Eve steak when his phone rings. Of course, it's Tony. 

"Merry Christmas, Tony."

"So, has our spy come in from the cold?"

"No."

"He's in Brooklyn, not far from you."

Steve sighs. "I know. I saw him last night — I mean I caught a glimpse of him last night. And if he was going to kill me, he would have had a clear shot. So, he's not going to kill me."

"I've always admired your confidence."

Steve chops some chives. "You didn't call me to see if I was still alive."

"Pepper is anxious. She's afraid you'll be spending Christmas alone."

"I'm _fine_. Besides, if you happen to look outside, you'll see that it's not the best travel weather. I'm going to stay home, keep warm, have a nice steak dinner and I'll even have a glass of wine in her honor."

"I had to ask."

"Thank you, Tony. And thank Pepper. I'll see you after you get back from Barbados, or wherever you're going to whisk her away for New Years." 

"If you change your mind or the weather improves, give us a call. There's always a place for you at the table."

"I will. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year."

"To you, too." Tony sounds a little sad as he ends the call. 

_5pm_

_Travel is not advised tonight as the snow continues to fall. Temperatures will be at or below zero tonight. If you must go out, be prepared. Our advice is to stay home, enjoy your families or significant others. It's a good night to cuddle in front of the fireplace and wait for Santa. Meanwhile, enjoy our continuous Christmas music tonight and through tomorrow._

The deejay signs off and the strains of _White Christmas_ come from the speakers. The nostalgia is immediate and sharp. He remembers sitting next to Bucky, huddled close for warmth, the length of their thighs pressed close, arms around each other because that's what everybody was doing, while Bing Crosby sang. It was a USO show, one of the rare ones that made it to where the Howling Commandos were stationed. Steve wasn't much of a singer, but Bucky had a rich tenor voice and he sang softly to Steve as the stars invited them to join in. 

A few days later, Bucky fell from the train and all the music had gone from Steve's life. He loved Peggy, but Bucky was his _life_.

It's too hard, living with half your life in the past … Steve bows his head and feels the scalding tracks of tears crawl down his cheeks. When he lifts his head, it is fully dark. He realizes that he hasn't even had time to set up his tree — it's just a two foot tall pre-lit and decorated artificial tree that he picked up at a discount store before the last mission, but maybe it will bring some cheer to his rather bleak apartment. Not to mention his bleak mood. 

He drags it out, finds an end table to give it a boost up and plugs it in. "Well, it worked for Charlie Brown," he says. It's okay. His heart lightens at the sight of the cheerful colored lights and sparkling ornaments. His phone chimes. It's 6:30, and he promised Father Bob that he would hand out candy and gifts following the early service at St. Vincent's. 

He changes into dark wash jeans and a navy blue cashmere sweater that was an early gift from Natasha. He knots a scarf around his throat and pulls on his boots, since the snow has accumulated to a good three inches, and is still falling. He adds a watch cap and sets out for the church. Between the traffic and the still crowded sidewalks, he doesn't notice the man in the dark hoodie following him. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

The party is great. Steve is a kid magnet, and with children of every age tugging at his sleeve, crawling into his lap, or just standing shyly at his shoulder, it's hard to hold on to his melancholy mood. When the last rousing _Fa, la, la la la_ has sounded and the kids are bundled up and taken home by grateful parents, Steve is tired, but happy. He helps the staff clean up and put the fallen ornaments back on the tree. Father Bob is standing by the creche with the displaced baby Jesus in his hands. "I'm afraid Maria Soto thought he'd be happier on the tree rather than under it," he chuckles. He's about to kneel, when Steve holds out his hand.

"I'll do it, Father. Your knees have had a workout today."

"Aye, that they have." Steve takes the figurine and places it gently back in the manger. Father Bob sets a hand on his shoulder. "I often think of the family on Christmas Eve. How they had to take shelter in a stable. I've been in the Holy Land in winter. It's not as warm as you would think. They must have been cold, and hungry … and certainly Mary was in pain. I see them in the people we serve. 

Steve nods. "I was one of them, once. Me and my mom. We had friends, though. They didn't have much more than we did, but they always shared the little they had." 

"You're a good man, Steven."

He hears the echo of Dr. Erskine in the pastor's words. Is he a good man? "I try, Father. He shakes his head, "Sometimes …maybe." He lifts his shoulders. "I should be on my way."

"Merry Christmas, Steven. Sleep well."

^*^*^*^*^*^

Outside, the skies have cleared but the temperature has dropped to the point of being wickedly cold. The streets are nearly deserted, but Steve doesn't rush home. He walks slowly, wondering if Bucky is watching him. He doesn't feel as if he's being followed or observed as he had before. Maybe Bucky is gone, given up, or scared away. 

Steve stops at a coffee shop that is miraculously still open and buys a large cup of steaming coffee. One of the perks of the serum is that he doesn't have to worry about caffeine keeping him awake. The heat feels good. He's starting to look forward to getting home, to sitting in front of his tree and listening to music that won't make him think too much about the past. Tomorrow, he'll be with his friends. 

His pace quickens as he nears his apartment. He's about to head up the stairs to the entrance when he hears a soft cough from the shadows. He stops, takes a breath, and crouches down. "Buck?"

The man shrinks away from him, and for a moment, Steve thinks he's made a mistake, that the man is just another homeless person looking for shelter from the wind. Then he catches a glimpse of silver through a rent in the man's hoodie. He kneels down and looks into the familiar face of his once best friend and erstwhile assassin. "Buck, do you remember me?"

Dark, haunted eyes meet his. "Your mom's name was Sarah. She put newspaper in your shoes."

Steve wants to cry. "Yeah, she did. And your mom put newspaper in the lining of your coat to keep the wind out because you were growing too fast and she couldn't afford new coats for both you and Becca."

Bucky nods. "I remember that, too." He starts shivering and he coughs harshly. 

"You can't stay out here," Steve says gently. "Come in from the cold." He holds out his hand. 

"I tried to kill you. I could kill you now."

Steve feels sick, but he shakes his head. "I'll take my chances. You can't stay out here. The cold is deadly."

Bucky shakes his head and his mouth twists in a mockery of a smile. "I've been colder." He huddles back into his hoodie, but his eyes are fixed on the steam rising from the cup in Steve's hand.

Steve presses it into his flesh hand and wraps the metal one around it. "If you change your mind, you know where I live." He can't push because he knows that will drive Bucky away. He gives him a choice, the power to make a decision — something he hasn't had for a very long time. 

He goes up the stairs, and pauses before he opens the door. "I have a present for you." That's all he says before he opens the door and goes into his apartment. He has no doubts that if Bucky wants to come in, the lock won't be much of a challenge for him. 

Upstairs, he plugs in the tree and turns lights on low. His skin tingles with awareness that Bucky is not a phantom haunting Steve as he walks down the street. He's close, and he's real. He's probably starving, Steve thinks, and he goes to the kitchen and makes a sandwich from the leftover steak from dinner. He brews coffee and pours a big glass of orange juice. He chides himself for thinking that Bucky will by some miracle come to his door, but Steve has never been accused of not being prepared. 

He turns on the radio and waits.

He's about to doze off when he hears the soft scratch at his door. Anybody with less acute hearing would have dismissed it, but Steve isn't usual, or normal. He opens the door. "Come in," he says.

Bucky sidles in, his eyes darting to every corner as if he expects an ambush. "I'm alone," Steve reassures him. "You're safe."

"I'm never safe."

"You are with me. Just like I was always safe with you. Remember when we met? You saw me getting punched in the face by Joey Billis and his buddies. You came in, arms windmilling, and a look on your face like the God of Thunder. Ever since then, you've had my back."

"You kept picking fights with guys twice your size, you punk."

That word seems so odd, coming from this hardened assassin. "You remember that?" Steve marvels. "I thought that would have been … you know… gone."

Bucky stares at him, his eyes reddened and wide. He hiccups with a sob. "I remember _everything_." He starts shaking, tears rolling down his cheeks, streaking through grime and the shaggy stubble. Steve can't stop himself, he wraps Bucky in his arms, rank and dirty and shivering. Nothing has ever felt this good. 

When Bucky's sobs have worn down to shaky breaths, Steve leads him to the bathroom. He turns on the water to fill the tub and adds some cedarwood and sage scented bath gel that Natasha had brought to tease him when she discovered he preferred baths to showers. He sets out shampoo and finds some sleep pants and a t-shirt. "You'll feel better cleaned up. I have food when you're done."

Bucky looks at him behind his curtain of lank hair. "Why are you being kind to me?"

"It's Christmas," Steve says, and when Bucky's lips turn up, he knows he's scored a point. "I'll just … leave you."

"No!" The Bucky looks like the word was startled out of him. "I-I need help," he whispers. "My arm."

Steve doesn't ask questions. He approaches Bucky cautiously. Bucky holds up his flesh and blood arm and Steve slides the filthy shirt off and over his head. Bucky eases it down his metal limb. He looks away, ashamed. "I'm sorry. I'm ugly."

Steve looks at the cruel scarring, the reddened, inflamed skin, the way the metal is joined to Bucky's body. "God, Bucky, you're not ugly. You're beautiful. You always have been. It's what was done to you that's ugly and sickening. Look at me," Steve takes Bucky's face in his hands. "You will never, ever be ugly or disgusting to me. You're my friend, and you will always be perfect."

Bucky just looks at him like he's crazy. Steve back away. "That water is going to get cold," he says backs up, leaving Bucky to get cleaned up.

Meanwhile, he heats up some tomato soup to go with the sandwich and puts some frozen french fries into the oven. They're done by the time Bucky emerges. 

Steve's clothes are too big for him, the sleeves too long, the pant legs pooling around his bare feet. He's shaved his stubble down to a shadow, and if it weren't for his long hair bundled into a messy bun at the back of his head, he looks like he had when he was twenty; his clothes a little too big, his muscles not grown into his frame, his features sharp with hunger because there was never enough to eat. 

He perches on one of the stools at Steve's breakfast bar. "Perch" being the operative word. Steve sets out the sandwiches and pours the soup into mugs. When he turns around, Bucky is staring at the sandwich in something like desperation. His hands are clenched, like he's afraid if he relaxes them, they'll latch onto the sandwich and shove it whole into his mouth. 

"It's okay, Buck. You can eat." It breaks his heart a little to see Bucky first reach tentatively towards the sandwich and then suddenly snatch it from the plate, as if he were afraid Steve would take it away if he didn't. He wolfs it down and reaches for the next one. Steve worries that he'll get sick but he doesn't want him to think that he can't eat, so Steve says conversationally, "Do you remember the time we ate a whole cherry pie? Man, my stomach felt like it was going to explode."

Bucky pauses, because he does remember. The question serves its purpose. He chews slowly and takes a few spoons of the soup. "I remember you kind of puked most of it up."

Steve laughs. "Yeah, I did. But you stayed with me and held my head, and cleaned me up. And, you didn't tell ma about it. It was years before I could look at a cherry pie without getting nauseous."

Bucky finished his meal at a more sedate pace. "That was good. Thank you."

"Do you want some dessert? Ice cream?"

"I don't remember the last time I had ice cream," Bucky says, his brow furrowing. "I don't remember if I like it." He seems distressed by the thought.

"You used to … not that we could afford it, but sometimes before the war when you were working in the shipyard and I was earning some money illustrating stories for the newspaper, we'd go to Coney Island and get these waffle cones. I'd get vanilla and you always got chocolate ice cream. We'd sit on the pier and watch the sun set before we'd go home."

Bucky shakes his head. He looks down at his metal hand and flexes the fingers. Steve watches, fascinated. "Can I … Can I touch your hand?"

Bucky nods and raises it to rest on the counter, palm up. Steve sets his own hand in it. It's surprisingly warm. "I thought it would be cold."

"It can be. Earlier, when I was outside it felt like ice."

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes." Bucky won't lie, but he regrets the anger and hurt he sees in Steve's eyes. "Not all the time," he amends. "Only when it's cold."

Steve strokes a finger across the metal palm. "Can you feel that?"

Bucky frowns. "Not like I feel with skin and bones and flesh. I feel pressure when I fire a gun, or … " He pales and pulls away from Steve. "No. Not like that." He gets off the barstool and wanders over to the window, looking out at the snow. 

Steve stands next to him and cautiously slides his arm around Bucky's waist. Bucky stiffens, but doesn't pull away. Steve holds his breath, waiting. Then Bucky's head droops on Steve's shoulder and his arm moves slowly around Steve's waist. 

Outside, the snow has started to fall again; perfect lacy flakes that sparkle in the lights. "Stay with me," Steve whispers against Bucky's hair. "You'll be safe."

Bucky nods and leans into Steve. Steve walks Bucky over to the bedroom. "Is this okay? If not, I'll make up the couch."

"No. I-I want to be with you," Bucky says a little uncertainly. 

"There's an extra toothbrush in the medicine cabinet." They stand side by side in silence and brush their teeth, then Steve looks away while Bucky uses the toilet. It reminds him of when they lived together before the war and he wonders if Bucky remembers that.

"You still hog the sink, punk." Bucky whispers against Steve's shoulder blade and Steve has to laugh. "Yeah, and you'll still hog the covers, you big jerk."

For just a moment, Bucky's mouth curves in a genuine grin; wide and carefree like it had when they were young. It's gone quickly, but Steve can feel the warmth in his heart. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Steve gets into bed first, leaving half of the covers thrown back. It's a big bed; king-sized to accommodate his body, so there's plenty of room for Bucky. He sits on the edge of the mattress for a few minutes, his back to Steve.

Steve strokes the wide, smooth planes of muscles, soothing him, feeling the tension easing from him. Eventually Bucky slides under the covers and lies on his back. He doesn't touch Steve, but he closes his eyes and breathes quietly. 

"Can I touch you?" Steve asks. When Bucky doesn't say no, he takes that as consent and carefully strokes down his arm, tangling his fingers in Bucky's. 

Bucky sighs and his fingers tighten around Steve's. "You don't have to ask."

Steve thinks enough people have touched Bucky, hurt him, without permission. "Yes, I do. I don't want to do anything without your consent."

"That's new," Bucky breathes. He turns his head. "I want …"

"Anything," Steve promises.

"I want you to hold me. When you hold me, I don't feel like I'm going to fly into a million jagged pieces. I don't feel … alone."

"You're not alone," Steve says and pulls Bucky closer, embracing him gently. "I'm with you to the end of the line … remember?"

"Mmm," Bucky's voice is drowsy against Steve's neck; his hair is soft beneath his cheek, and his eyelashes are black lace on his pale cheeks. His lips are vulnerable. They have always been traitorous, revealing hurts and emotions more easily than his eyes and perhaps only readable to Steve. He kisses Bucky's hair, and they sleep. 

Steve wakes once during the night, aware that Bucky is no longer wrapped around him. He's on his back, his eyes closed, but Steve can tell he's not sleeping. He rolls over and curls his arm around Bucky's waist. Bucky sighs and pulls Steve's arm tighter. 

"Bad dreams?" Steve whispers.

"It's too quiet," Bucky says softly. "Too light."

Steve sits up and looks out the window. "It's snowing harder, that's why it's so light." He lies back down and gathers Bucky close. "I like the snow. I get to have you with me longer — if you want to stay …" His voice is hopeful.

Bucky nods briefly and relaxes into Steve's warmth. "I'll stay," he says against Steve's throat. Steve draws back so Bucky can see his smile. Bucky smiles back tentatively. Their mouths are close, their breaths mingle and Steve tilts his head, questioning. Bucky's fingers stroke through Steve's hair, bringing him closer. Steve carefully sets his lips on Bucky's, feeling the soft curve, that slight overbite that makes his smile so sweet and his mouth so vulnerable. 

Bucky breathes into his mouth and shyly licks the inner curve of his upper lip. Steve moans softly and mimic's Bucky's action. He keeps his eyes open, watching Bucky's widen and darken in response before they flutter shut and he sighs, surrendering willingly to Steve's kiss. 

Steve wants more; so much more. He wants to lick every inch of Bucky's skin, taste his salt and his musk, drink him in like he's dying of thirst. It's selfish, but he craves touch. He wonders if he's asking too much from Bucky. 

"Don't stop," Bucky says, his eyes luminous in the pale snow-reflected light, giving Steve permission to take what he needs. "Don't ask me to stop," he says roughly. His hands move over Steve's body; warm flesh and cool metal, surprisingly gentle but eager and searching, knowing where to be rough and where to be tender, until Steve is gasping out his climax against Bucky's throat. 

Bucky is hard against his thigh, and Steve kisses down his sternum, to the soft dip of his abdomen, and nuzzles into the musky curls at his groin. Bucky pulls at his hair, and Steve stops and looks up. Bucky frowns slightly. "Did I hurt you?"

"No! It felt good … better than good."

"I'm dyin' here, Stevie."

"Oh." Steve can feel himself blush, but he smiles. "Oh … in that case." He swoops in and takes Bucky into his mouth in a smooth swallow. Bucky curses and his hips jerk up. Steve sucks him softly, swirling his tongue around Bucky's glans, probing the sweet-tasting slit, taking him deep until Bucky is groaning and fucking his mouth. His breath is quick and fast; he cries out and and comes in Steve's mouth, sobbing when Steve reluctantly pulls away.

"Bucky?"

"S'nothing. Just … it's been so long … so long." His voice cracks, then steadies. "They only hurt me. And when they finished hurting me, they put me in that _thing_."

Steve doesn't have to ask who _they_ are, or what that 'thing' is. "It's over, Bucky. Nobody is ever going to hurt you again. They have to go through me and a whole lot of trouble." Steve kisses him and sits up. "I'm not going far, just getting a washcloth to clean us up."

He lets the water run hot, so that the cloth will still be warm as he cleans Bucky off, then himself. Bucky watches him drowsily through a curtain of messy bed-hair. Steve combs it gently with his fingers, carefully working out the tangles. "That's one problem we never had before," he quips, but softens the words with a kiss. 

"They said it was easier to hide my features. They only cut it when it interfered with my functioning."

"You shouldn't talk about yourself like you're a machine, not completely human."

"Isn't that what I am? A cyborg, a construct. A weapon?" Bucky asks bitterly and Steve captures his metal hand. "This is a prosthetic; nothing more, nothing less. You're a soldier who lost a limb in battle. I see guys like you at the Vet center all the time. Their prosthetics allow them to function."

"They were not designed to be a weapon."

"Every soldier is a weapon."

Bucky sighs into Steve's shoulder. He doesn't say anything, but some of the tension leaves his body. Steve rubs his back, and they lie back down, tangled in each other. This time, when they fall asleep, they don't wake until morning.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Steve is up at dawn; not unusual for him, but he's baffled momentarily by the warm body pressed close to his. He turns his head, blows strands of hair from his eyes. Not his hair. He blinks awake. _Bucky_. The assassin sleeps like a child, lips slightly parted, the satin edge of the blanket clutched to his face. Steve has seen him like this before, so many years gone. 

Bucky, annoyed by the strands of his hair drifting across his skin, bats at them ineffectually; wrinkling his nose and finally opening one eye. He focuses on Steve and both eyes open wide. He sits up and staggers from the bed, dragging the sheet with him. "Where … where?"

"Buck, you're with me. You're safe."

He blinks. "I know where I am," he says, grumpy as always in the morning. "It was just … " He sits back on the bed. "I dreamed we were back in Brooklyn."

Steve smiles at that. "We are in Brooklyn, just not _that_ Brooklyn. Do you know what day it is?"

"It's Friday?" he guesses.

"Yeah, it's Christmas, Buck."

He smiles slowly, his eyes warming. "It's not Christmas until I have coffee."

Steve laughs. "God, Bucky, I'd never thought you'd remember that. Ever since you were old enough to drink coffee … every damn year. I'd be bouncing off the walls and you'd say, 'It's not Christmas until I have coffee."

"It worked."

Steve grabs his robe and says over his shoulder, "Still does." He goes into the kitchen and starts the brewer. A few minutes later, Bucky comes out of the bedroom. He leans in, sniffs the back of Steve's neck. "Mmm."

"Better than coffee?" Steve teases. 

"You're the only thing better than coffee, Stevie. That doesn't mean I don't want a big mug right now, though."

Steve pours it for him. Bucky looks at the mug, red and gold, emblazoned with the Stark Industries logo. He doesn't take a sip right away. "Howard's kid?"

"Yeah."

"He still alive?"

Steve swallows, realizing that Bucky doesn't remember that he may have caused the accident. . The last wipe took that horror away. "No. He and Tony … it's complicated. I think Howard had problems him because he knew Tony was as smart or smarter than he was. He wasn't exactly a warm and loving presence."

"What's Stark like?"

"Sharp as a knife and full of attitude. Once you get past that, he's a good guy at the heart. Kind of like you," Steve smiles. "You might get along."

Bucky shrugs. "Or I might want to kill him."

"Get in line." Steve doesn't take Bucky seriously. He can't. "Why do you say that?"

"I wouldn't, you know. I don't do that anymore." Bucky's eyes lock on to his. "You gotta believe me, Cap."

"You don't have to call me that. Nobody does anymore, except for Clint and he does it more to annoy me than anything else." Steve pours himself a mug of coffee. This one is purple with a broken arrow on it. 

"I don't know him?"

"No. He was away during the whole HYDRA/SHIELD mess -- which we absolutely won't talk about right now. I want to talk about breakfast. You still like waffles?" Bucky's eyes light up, which Steve takes as a yes. "Natasha brought me a waffle iron for my birthday." He watches Bucky for any sign of recognition at her name, but he doesn't blink. Maybe he doesn't remember her. But why does he remember so many other things?

Steve thinks about that as he starts making the batter. "Would you get the butter and syrup out o the refrigerator?" After Bucky hands them to Steve, he asks. "Buck, why do you remember Brooklyn? Why my mom and your mom? How come HYDRA didn't erase those memories?" 

Bucky frowns, thinking. "They didn't think they were important?" 

Steve thinks about HYDRA, Red Skull, how they underestimated what was worth fighting for. He doesn't want to bring that pall over today, when they should be celebrating peace. He pours the batter into the waffle iron. "You can go through my clothes, see what fits."

Bucky raises a brow. "Look in the mirror lately?"

Steve rolls his eyes. "I've got track pants, shirts. My jeans won't fit you, but I put yours in the wash with your hoodie, so they'll be clean by tonight. The waffles are going to take a few minutes."

Bucky drains his coffee mug and hands it back to Steve. "More coffee?"

"You can have the whole carafe."

Bucky heads towards the bedroom, and Steve is half-tempted to follow, but the waffles won't wait, and if he's hungry, Bucky must be starving. He's taking the sausages out of the frying pan when Bucky returns.

He's wearing an old pair of Steve's track pants and a dark red Henley. His hair is loose and shiny. If not for the dark shadows under his eyes, the his too prominent cheekbones, he would look like just another Brooklyn boy. 

Steve warms the syrup, plates the waffles and sausages and pours fresh coffee for them both. They eat in the living room, in the glow of Christmas lights. Outside, the now is falling but only in a flurry. Soon the roads and sidewalks will be clear. _Not yet,_ he thinks, _I'm not ready to lose Bucky again,_. 

They eat, and color returns to Bucky's cheeks. He finally sits back and pats his stomach. "I don't remember you being that good of a cook," he smiles.

"Well, since I've been on my own I've learned to feed myself. I've got to keep this body in shape."

Bucky eyes him. "Looks like it's working." He sets his plate down and reaches for the waistband of Steve's jeans, tugging him close. Might take some more research, though." 

Steve looks into Bucky's blue eyes. There are tiny flecks of gold and dark gray around the irises. He smiling at Steve, but there is sadness in their depths. "I can't stay." He tells Steve. "I can't risk somebody activating the tracker in my arm. There might be other problems I don't want to expose you to, Steve."

"I'll call Tony. If anybody can figure it out, he can."

"No. I have to do this alone. It's okay, Stevie."

"Don't leave today. I swear I'll follow you and drag your sorry ass back here for Christmas."

Bucky shakes his head. "I don't know if that's a good idea."

"It's a great idea. I have a present for you." He goes to the tree and hands Bucky a package. Bucky hesitates, his fingers poised over the bow as if waiting for permission. "It's yours. Open it. It's nothing big, I promise."

"I didn't get you anything," Bucky whispers. 

"You're here. That's the best present I've ever gotten."

Bucky blushes and won't look at Steve. He unties the bow with trembling fingers, and parts the tissue paper reverently. He draws in a breath and gathers the scarf in his hands, raising it to his face. "Thank you," he whispers. 

It breaks Steve's heart to hear how broken Bucky sounds, like Steve's kindness is more than he expects or deserves even after last night. How damaged is he? How much has been stripped away by HYDRA? His sense of worth, his agency, his humanity. 

Bucky's throat works against the tears in his eyes, but he loops the scarf around his neck. "Back in the old days, I'd be wrapping this around you to keep you from getting pneumonia. Guess I don't have to worry about that anymore."

"Not so much." Steve leans back and pulls Bucky to lie against his chest, arms and legs wrapped around him; surrounding him with warmth. Bucky shakes out the scarf and burrows closer to Steve's heat, the scarf covering them both. Steve thinks he'll be like a furnace, but he's willing to give Bucky the warmth he seems to crave.

It only takes a few minutes for Bucky's head to droop against Steve's shoulder. Steve strokes Bucky's soft hair, easing him into deeper sleep. He feels ridiculously light and happy. He doesn't know how long he'll have with Bucky, but right now, they have each other, and Christmas day. 

**The End**

New Years Coda [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5630479)


End file.
